


all that dazzling dawn has put asunder

by tascheter



Series: when i fall asleep it is your eyes that close [2]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: (they finally kiss in this one), Don't copy to another site, Drinking Games, F/M, did i write the entirety of in my sleep i dreamed of waking just to justify this? maybe so dot gif, late-night secret swapping, more tender (sfw) monsterfuckery, post-S3, slow burn resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:40:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascheter/pseuds/tascheter
Summary: Even on the other side of the Eternal Night, it doesn't take them long to fall into an easy, comfortable routine. And—it's not that he doesn't enjoy the domesticated life. Because he does. With her? He definitely does.But certain occasions call for a break from routine, no matter how pleasant. Which means that on this particular evening: the changeling Stricklander is about to getwasted.
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander
Series: when i fall asleep it is your eyes that close [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563610
Comments: 30
Kudos: 77





	all that dazzling dawn has put asunder

**Author's Note:**

> [ _it's not quite the full album, but:[a little music, to set the mood?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVchmf4M88s)_ ]

The record still slides easily onto the player, even after all this time.

It's one of Nomura's old _roentgenizdat_ productions: a bootleg of a bootleg from some dive in Sin City, pressed onto the radiograph of a skull in profile, recorded so close to the orchestra Sinatra's laughter is still clear and bright between tracks. It had hardly been any effortto fetch it. He'd felt almost like a thief, sneaking back to his old apartment, landing on his balcony just after sunset; but the door still slid open easily at his touch. In the end, it was mostly the principle of the matter. Having his things here, now, still feels like some unearned, unwarranted privilege, a piece of something small and bright he's not sure how to fit into this strange new world.

He realizes, with some chagrin, that he's going to have to make another trip at some point. Even under all the personal effects he's set up—a gold-and-enamel sable's skull, no bigger than a damson, a few effaced leaden seals, hidden under a crown of crumbling nightshade flowers—the room looks depressingly spare. Most of them are only trinkets, after all. Things that felt too little, or too big, to explain, that he'd shied from bringing with the rest of his essentials. Even now, even like this, it had felt too close to being seen—like conjuring up the shades of a thousand tiny truths, truths he wasn't sure would survive being brought to light. In the end, though—even if they were only some silly mementos, he couldn't bear the thought of them moldering away in some dark, dead, dusty apartment.

So: he'd snuck out to get them. Almost a month, now, after the end of the world, and he still can't quite remember ever feeling more like a delinquent human teenager.

 _Sentimental_ , he thinks. _As always_ , his mind supplies, in a too-familiar, bespectacled voice.

But. Well. He's retired, now. He's allowed to be a little sentimental.

He leans back from the trunk with a bone-deep sigh. In the space of what is now, apparently, his room, he stretches his wings absent-mindedly, enjoying the sensation of free, unobserved movement and the pleasant, hard-earned ache in his back and sides. Flying is never exactly a chore, but—it's tiring. Especially when you're trying not to be noticed. Especially when you live in California, where even the nights are clear for miles, and it's almost the full moon, and everyone and their familiar has _cell phones_.

It's not as if—he's not turning into a recluse. Barbara worries about it, lately. It's not as if he wouldn't go out with her. For all the years he'd agonized over what it would be like to be exposed, here, in Arcadia, it actually hasn't been nearly that bad. Way fewer pitchforks than he'd envisioned, for example. Slightly more hate mail, though truthfully that's more entertaining than anything else. He'd still tendered his official resignation to the school, of course, and moving had been—an experience, even if Barbara's presence had been more reassuring than she could guess.

But he's not _hiding_. He's stared down bigger, older, nastier things than some letters to the editor of the _Arcadia Oaks Ledger_. And, to be completely honest? He's got more important things to worry about, now, than some pearl-clutching country-clubbers catching the vapors.

Just over three weeks ago, in the warm, full sunlight of a California afternoon, Barbara Lake—the Trollhunter's mother, a _human_ , the same woman he'd once charmed to share whatever fate befell him—asked him to move in with her. He of course had said yes, because he hadn't gotten as far in the Janus Order as he had by being stupid. But he's never spent so long, so close, before, to something so near to contentment.

It's terrifying. Life with her is always fresh, always new, even as they've started piecing together a routine. She's mostly back to work, now, and he spends his days researching; when she's home in the evenings, they cook dinner together almost every night. (Well—he cooks. She helps, unselfconsciously attentive.) On her weekends, they watch movies. Stricklander: domesticated.

Living with her isn't anything like he'd expected. For one: it's maddening. Especially since—since the familiars were returned. In the best way, obviously. She's not blind, and she's not stupid. (Gods, she's not. Clever and driven, quick as lightning—) But he knows, for a fact, that for as much as she's taken to the discovery of a secret world beneath her feet—she's apparently started emailing with Blinkous, of all people—she's never had to think about what it means that she's living with a changeling. Especially one that can't change any more.

He's joked with her before, about her optimism. He's still fairly certain neither of them realize how much it wasn't joking.

But what she doesn't understand is: changelings aren't used to living in the open. Let alone—happily. Dissembling and concealment are second nature to him, so much so that he hardly realizes he's doing it. Not to mention: he's _good_ at it. He's been hiding himself from humans for a hundred human lifetimes. Being forcibly exposed hasn't exactly made that impulse go away.

It's spending so much time around her that's the problem. It's not like she's the only human he's ever noticed, but she's certainly the only one he's ever gotten this close to. _Metaphorically_ , anyway, though their new easy, friendly physicality is also something of a surprise. Sometimes, he'll get so close to her—in the kitchen, while they're cooking, or watching some horrible movie together on her couch—their bodies almost touch, and every time, it brings back memories of the first time he'd stepped into sunlight: warmth, all-encompassing, _bright, bright, bright_. Every instinct screaming at him to hide. Every part of him that's ever wanted anything begging him to stay.

He's spent a very long time wearing a mask. One that had become so familiar, so comforting, simply by its presence, he'd almost forgotten it wasn't his true face. But around her?

Well. He's not ungrateful, after everything. And—he refuses to become maudlin.

But tonight—tonight, after all, is a night for reminiscing.

Reminiscing, and _drinking_.

At first glance, the bottle isn't anything special. It sits, unassuming, atop the Edwardian steamer trunk he's converted into an ad-hoc vanity: clear glass, dull red wax, a once-expensive label now faded and stained. The Order's first brief foray into distillation had been unusually enthusiastic, but those years had been lean, and 'changeling-made spirits' weren't exactly an investment market. But the wax seal still peels away smooth and clean, even after all these years. The cork follows it easily, sliding out in one swift, smooth motion, before the room fills with an immediate, unmistakeable perfume: honey and almond, stonefruit and sunshine, flashes of summers spent outside Vienna on estates burnt down a century ago.

He should, properly, be doing this outside. He's already missed this month's new moon, but—well. Little Mirror always had been proud of how he could hide in plain sight. The actual libation might, technically, have been a little bit stolen, but that was long ago, by now.

He'd like to think Otto would at least appreciate the sentiment.

 _Ah, Stricklander_. He can still hear the words in the other changeling's voice, all clipped velars and too-round front vowels. Even in _nǒnat_ , he'd never completely managed to shake the Underlord's accent. _The day will come when you'll dream of a harvest this sweet. And then, my friend, we'll raise a glass together, and you'll be glad you took such thought for the future._

"No hard feelings, old friend." His voice feels suddenly very small, in the lonely dark of the attic. "But it looks like we were both of us wrong, in the end."

He lifts the bottle to his lips, and tips his head back.

" _Walt_?"

The sound of his name—sudden, unexpected—makes him jump nearly out of his skin. He only just manages to avoid dousing his assembled cushions (and himself) in liquor.

Across the room, a familiar head peeks up through the trap door like a curious sparrow.

"Barbara," he says, stupidly. "You—you're home."

* * *

She is, as it turns out. Later than she'd been scheduled, but earlier than she'd expected, because not even the apocalypse, apparently, has improved this hospital's time management strategies.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she insists, toeing off her shoes beside her purse at the edge of the rug. In the light diffusing up from below, her hair had glowed radiant, carnelian and amber; now, in the dark of a space lit only by moonlight, it looks like nothing so rich and warm as blood. "I'd already texted Jim, he and I are going to skype later. But—I didn't think to text you until I was already on the way home."

"As I said." He'd invited her up, because of course he did, though he's not quite sure what to do now that she's taken him up on the offer. In his defense: he hadn't exactly been thinking this far ahead. "You're welcome to join me, of course. As long as you don't have anything better to do, I mean."

"Oh boy." Her expression turns playful. "Mystery booze, and—is that Dean Martin? Twist my arm, why don't you."

He smiles back, hoping she can't see how nervous it feels. But he doesn't correct her. Beside him, the record croons gently into the gloom: _what kind of fool am I,_ indeed.

"To be honest," she continues, half-conspiratory, "I think Wanda was actually trying to do me a favor, this time. A nice, easy Saturday to end out my shift—or, well. As easy as we've been, for the past few weeks. But then, things just kept snowballing, and obviously, nothing says _hot and happening weekend_ than like an emergency appendectomy..."

He tries not to snort. "You've certainly earned your vacation, my dear."

"Yeah? Well." She flashes him a fond, lopsided grin. "I can't tell you how much I was looking forward to coming home."

She sounds—tired. But—it's a good kind of tired, or at least something better than the last few weeks' prevailing _post-apocalyptic exhaustion_. He feels something like gratitude, to hear it—a weird, indirect emotion, one he's still not quite used to. It's almost immediately overcome by the anxious shock of seeing her walk over to his small mountain of cushions—but even so, it must be the easiest thing in the world to make room as she pulls one over for herself, just beside his own.

(They're plush, and many; easier to fit into the attic than a proper mattress. More comfortable, too, since—since he stopped being a back sleeper.)

"Not that I don't appreciate the company, obviously." Somehow, he manages to sound much less distracted than he feels. She's come to rest electrically close to him, which—is fine; this isn't his first siege. He's certainly not going to complain. "But—if you'd rather wait for your call downstairs, I understand. I know you've been looking forward to hearing from Jim—"

She waves a hand. "Like I said, Jim's not due 'til later. I think he told me—a little after one, his time?"

"All the same." He darts a look at the little dash clock on his trunk. That's not long off, given the time difference. "I wouldn't want to impose."

"Aw, c'mon." She flashes him a soft, illegible expression. "For you? I've got time."

His face goes. Very warm. If she notices, though, she doesn't say anything.

Instead, she props herself on an elbow, and hums, unselfconsciously looking over to the bottle he's still holding. He turns the label into the moonlight for her on impulse, wondering, idly, how much she can actually read of it—half German, half Latin, all in Otto's glossy, coal-black _Kurrentschrift_.

"So." When she speaks again, her voice is pitched carefully neutral. "Do changelings know any good drinking games?"

He nearly chokes.

"Wait—you're _serious_?"

"Come on." Her grin reappears, underpinned with just a hint of something sharp. She has a dangerous propensity for such questions, he's noticed. "Look, you don't need to make excuses to me. If you're going to spend a nice Saturday evening getting wasted, I won't try to stop you. But what kind of housemate would I be, if I let you go it alone?" Her voice turns so warm, so fond, before shifting into something half-teasing. "Let alone on the floor, in my attic, in the dark."

He's—still not exactly sure how to answer her. Because, on the one hand: changelings have the _best_ drinking games. But on the other: he's pretty sure _alkahest_ and _dagger-in-the-back_ and _iron nail_ can't be played by humans, at least not if you want them to come out alive.

"Or. Well." She turns onto her side to face him, her eyes practically sparkling under the skylight. "If not, how about this. Trade a drink, trade a secret?"

A simple game, as such things go. Classic. Dangerous, for an ex-spy.

"What's to keep me from only telling you the boring ones?" he says, going for _coy_ and hitting something around _unsubtle_. As if she couldn't already get him to tell her just about anything.

"Catharsis?" She shoots a glance down to the bottle, and adds: " _Boozy_ catharsis." Then, she shrugs, cavalier and brilliant and oh, _oh_ , he's got it bad. "Either way, we lived through the end of the world, and I'm about to have an entire week off. I'd say I've earned a fucking drink."

He barks out a nervous laugh, despite himself. He's still not used to hearing her swear so freely, to see how she is with just herself.

Seeing it this close—it's another recent privilege he's still not quite used to.

"Well—alright." Hearing himself agree to this human game isn't half as surprising as he might've once thought, though he still can't quite believe this is happening. "I... _accept_ the lady's terms."

"Sweet! Sounds like you just volunteered to go first." A flick of her lightning-quick hands, and like that, she's stolen away the last of Otto Scaarbach's personal _marillenbrand_ reserve, laughing like a nymph. "Especially since you seem to've had an awful head start. I think they call that _unsporting_."

As if to demonstrate, she takes a swig of her ill-gotten gains. The face she makes is absolutely charming.

"Really, Walt? _Ugh_. Some kind of—fruity paint thinner?"

"Apricot schnapps, if you like. Though—ah." She had once mentioned some 'terrible decisions' vis-à-vis herself and fruit liquors. The memory—him, her, a dinner date, just downstairs—might as well have been from another lifetime, now. "I would hardly begrudge the mistress of the house her right to BYOB, of course—"

She scrunches her nose. It's desperately cute.

"I've had worse," she says. "Go on, scoot over."

* * *

It doesn't take them any time to fall into a rhythm. Exchanging secrets with her is actually surprisingly easy; alarmingly so, part of him protests. But the closeness, the intimacy that's sprung up in the meantime—it's new, terrifying, but unexpectedly pleasant. He doesn't dare endanger it by examining it too closely.

(At least not before they've made a few further rounds.)

"Wait, wait." Things are still only pleasantly warm, not drunk; but he can't have heard her right. "You mean— _Vivienne_ , like the Lady of the Lake?"

She laughs at him, artlessly. "Nobody ever said anything," she says. "I thought I was going crazy."

"I hardly expect Emrys would've introduced her," he mutters, still half-disbelieving. The Trollhunter's mother sharing a name of the _Lady of the Lake_ : it's a coincidence so implausible, so contrived, if he'd heard it from anyone else he wouldn't have believed it. "But— _wait_. That is—no offense, Barbara, but that still doesn't explain how you know who she is."

"Hey! I read things," she protests. "Mostly romance novels, but also...things."

He tries not to snort, however fondly. "I'm not sure where _The Mists of Avalon_ fits in the Arthurian canon, my dear."

She smacks his arm, though it's difficult to take her seriously when she's trying so hard, so obviously, to keep a straight face. "I mean like Wikipedia, you doof. After fucking _Merlin_ showed up..."

Which. Ah. He darts a glance up at the ceiling, not sure what he should say.

"I just—I'd gotten curious." Her voice turns thoughtful, almost apologetic. Somewhere beside him he registers the gentle _clink_ of glass against the floor, and it feels so sudden, so close, like the world has shrunk to fit just them. "And I figured, well. I knew some of the names already. I guess I just...never thought it might be worth mentioning."

"To be fair," he says, in what may be the understatement of his life, "we were both a little distracted. At the time."

" _Ugh._ Don't remind me." She wrinkles her nose, and leans back into her cushion. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I don't think it actually means anything. Or at least I hope not. All that stupid magical destiny bullshit, and—seducing that creep?"

She makes a face. It's just as charming the second time around.

"So—anyway. That's the secret. My middle name is Vivienne, which is definitely not-weird if it's the name of the actress but which is also, apparently, one of the names of some ancient, maybe-extant sorceress, who, apparently, has some kind of epic beef with Merlin. Which...might make it a little weird." She turns away, blushing. Half-nervous, half-careless, all beautiful in the moonlight. "So if you've got something goofy, Walt, like—I don't know. Clarence, or _Swithun_ —"

He freezes. Mostly because—it's not his name, but it is an old name, one he knows, and he can't at all place where Barbara would've learned it.

" _Swithun_?"

"Oh, you know. Aunt Helga? 'Saint Swithun's day has come at last?'" She gives him an inquisitive look, one that is altogether too dangerous to be so charming. "Come on. I know you were around for _The Simpsons_ —"

 _And for the translation of Swithun's relics to Winchester cathedral_. Though—that's probably more detail than she really wants, at this point. So instead:

"What on _earth_ ," he laughs. "You ridiculous creature."

Which—fuck. He definitely said aloud.

At least in the dark, she can't see how he's blushing—or, if she does, she at least pretends not to. "I'm willing to put up with a lot of things," she says solemnly. "But I draw the line at whatever the hell kippers are."

"Why, Barbara. I didn't figure you for the culturally insensitive type—"

" _Walter_."

She smacks him with a pillow, but she's laughing, and then _he's_ laughing, despite himself. He is absolutely going to die, a quiet, impossible part of him thinks; and Barbara _Vivienne_ Lake, MD, will absolutely be the one to kill him.

After she's through teaching him some manners, she offers him the bottle back again, which he lightly accepts. He's trying very hard to think about what secret he might offer in return, and not to think about how drinking from that bottle, by some standards—by _his_ standards—might constitute an abstract kiss.

She's waiting very patiently, after all. He racks his memory for an offering that would be neither unpleasant nor unsuitably maudlin, which rules out most of his (admittedly impressive) hoard of personal trivia.

Then, almost unbidden: an idea occurs to him.

It's...not the worst secret. It might even be one she'd find endearing.

Part of him thinks: it certainly isn't something he'd mind her knowing, about him.

"Well. It's not quite _Swithun_. But while we're on the subject of names." He taps his fingers distractedly along the bottle's edge, trying not to flounder under the sudden swell of nerves. "Did you know—my familiar's name really is Waltolomew?"

He's only ever rarely talked about the boy. Let alone with—with someone who isn't a changeling. But if he's going ahead with this particular revelation, she's going to need some introduction. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her watching beside him, raptly attentive; he tries not to let the attention make him more jittery than he already is.

"Somehow." He realizes, belatedly, that he's missing about half the context she needs for this particular anecdote, but she looks invested, now, so he scrambles to make do. "Anglo-Norman onomastics weren't normally so creative. Though you've got to admit, the mismatch makes a good match." 

Her eyes go wide and bright at the offhanded designation he hadn't exactly meant to drop. It's—a distracting thought.

But there had been a point to this, somewhere, which— _right_.

"It's hard to explain," he goes on, stupidly, even though it absolutely _is._ "In the end—even if I used it, it's always been the boy's name." He swallows, and tries to reorient himself. "But I've always thought of myself—almost since I can remember thinking of myself as anything in particular—as Stricklander."

The words hang baldly in the stillness of the attic, and—he tries just to let them, unfamiliar with the sensation. Suddenly, absurdly, he feels shy. It's the first time he's ever told a human his real name; even leaving out the story of how he'd won it, it feels—exposed, _exposing_ , to have her know this.

Now that he's actually said it, he's not quite sure what he was expecting this revelation to accomplish.

But when he dares a glance over to her, and sees her expression turn from _mystified_ to _painfully transparent_ —

"Walt, I—I never realized." Her voice is so soft, when she hears herself speaking, she looks almost surprised. "I only thought it was your—your last name, or—"

"We don't have them," he says, too smooth, too quick. He's suddenly overcome by the realization of how idiotic—or worse, _pitiful_ —this must sound to a human, and he swallows again, willing his voice to stay supple and nonchalant. "Not—not like you think of them, anyway—"

She shifts, on the cushions beside him. Even in the dark, her cheeks are visibly pink.

"I—sorry." Her expression does something funny, and—he looks away, like a child, before he can't bear it anymore. "I don't mean to pry. I just—this is all new, and I—"

"It's a lot," he says, quietly. "Because—that is, I understand. It _is_."

He should've known, a small, cruel, panicked part of him hisses. He remembers his first time in the human world, still: how strange it was, how wrong it felt, how _too like_ what he knew. This might be the truth, but it's too cold, too sharp; too much, too strange for a human to bear—

When he registers the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, he almost startles.

"Because I don't want to get it wrong," she says. "Would you rather—would you like me to—?"

She's plainly fumbling with the words, and—when her voice falters, just a crack, he has to remind himself rather forcefully of his earlier resolutions re: getting emotional. Because it's her, he can tell that it's a clumsiness that comes of care, not disinterest. But he's still not entirely sure how to react to being confronted, so guilelessly, with such transparent concern.

"Barbara—" Even while saying her name, he can't look at her. He can't. He's never felt so seen as he has for the past few weeks, and it's not _comfortable_ , for a changeling to be seen; but around her, it's almost like he wants to be, like being _seen_ doesn't mean being _unmade_ , and he can't, he _can't_. "I—my dear. If I wished you to use any other name, you would know."

"Well." She huffs a soft laugh, though the fire of the sound is tempered some by its undisguised relief. "You'd better."

Something warm and solid settles in his throat. It's not late enough for such consideration, surely, even by gentle human standards.

"Waltolomew _._ " She says the name softly, into the gloom, more tenderly than he's heard it said in a long age. "Jeez. I mean—I get names must change, and all. But—man." She bites her lip, clearly thoughtful, before her expression goes a little wistful. "I wonder how they picked it?"

"It's—a family name. In a manner of speaking." His—the _boy_ 's mother had told him, when he'd asked. Fresh off winning his own name, he'd been curious about the one he borrowed, and Emmeline had always been a soft touch.

 _Walter for your father's father, and St. Bart for mine. He's the patron saint of leatherworkers: see how he holds the knives_?

"One chosen specially for him, at any rate." A little on the nose— _the leader of the army,_ not to mention _the flayed apostle, carrying his own skin_ —but they couldn't have known. They couldn't. "But—it certainly wasn't the worst thing," he insists, trying to chase at least a little lightness into the conversation. "After all, I knew a cleric called Astralabe, once—"

* * *

"I'd read the reconnaissance reports, of course." A few secrets later, Barbara's gone quiet and attentive, so he's trying to keep his explanations relatively straightforward. Even so: under the drinks they've shared so far, and the soft, jazzy something still pouring off from the record, he's still sober enough to worry he's babbling to fill the silence. "I knew—on paper, I knew what it was like. Tactical advantages, population estimates. Vague ideas of the city layout. But..."

He's overcome, bizarrely, by the feeling of reporting to Kodanth, even after all this time. At least he's getting serenaded this time, in this weird, ecstatic circle of hell.

She hums beside him. "But nothing compares to actually being there?"

Her voice is studious, almost thoughtful. Almost understanding. He ducks his head.

"All things considered," he admits, "it wasn't a terribly great first time in Trollmarket."

She laughs, a bright, unexpected sound. "You're telling me!"

"What I mean is—" He looks pointedly up at the ceiling, too flustered to finish the thought. "Well. I deserved that."

"Sorry," she laughs, again, not sounding much like it. "Like I told you. I was pretty pissed about you— _linking_ us, or whatever. I think I'm still entitled to being at least a little peeved." She re-situates herself, settling closer into the cushions. "But the thought of you being just as overwhelmed as me? Extremely gratifying, in hindsight."

He's never brought that night up to her before. Not because he hasn't thought about it—because he _definitely_ has—but because every time he tries, he's reminded how little experience he has saying _sorry I almost got you killed_ instead of _sorry I didn't finish the job_.

The thought that she can laugh about it—even like this, just between them—it's baffling.

She's still watching him, though. Still curious, because of course she is. "I imagine you must have heard about it, at least? What with all your fancy spy connections."

"Oh, certainly." The Order had installed an operative there not long after the trolls first arrived, though—again—that's probably not something she strictly needs to know. "But, as you say. Standard biweekly reports on activity and materiél hardly compare to the real thing."

"The way Blinky talks, it sounds almost like—I don't know. Not exactly like a tourist hub, but something...like it." She gestures, ineloquently. "Something about the crystal, I think?"

"The heartstone?"

"I remember seeing it," she says. "Before it—well. When we were there, the first time." She gives a self-conscious little half-laugh. "I really didn't know anything back then, huh? If you'd have told me there was some secret underground troll city, right under my feet..."

"I imagine most humans would feel the same."

"Fair. But still." She hums again, a soft sound in the dark. "I don't know if I could've ever have imagined something like it."

He snorts, though not (he hopes) unkindly. "You're hardly the only one."

"Oh?"

"I'd always thought it would be—well. What trolls always say a heartstone is like," he explains. Which he realizes, belatedly, actually explains very little to a human, so: "Better than sunlight, better than first love. Both in one. Like—coming home." He clears his throat, suddenly aware of how undilutedly sentimental this line of conversation is threatening to turn. "But we— _changelings_ , they say, don't feel much from them. Instead, I...I just felt small."

He can feel her eyes on him again. Not—staring, not rudely, but just—attentive. He can't remember ever wanting to be seen this badly, even as he's fairly certain meeting her eyes might actually kill him.

"Which—it's not inaccurate."

She hums. A soft, inquiring noise.

"You've seen trolls, by now," he reminds her. He shrugs, again, on reflex, before trying desperately not to think about what he must look like. It's an awkward gesture at the best of times, but it feels substantially stupider like this: in front of a human, half-tipsy, his wings falling asleep underneath him.

He ponders for a moment, weighing his words. Then decides to throw this in as a bonus secret: repayment, for (as she noticed) his very unsporting head start.

"I am small, after all. For—whatever I am."

Something like a stalkling, near as he can tell. If—scrawny, more humanoid. _Not that she would even know what that means_ —

"Hey." The sound of her voice—so soft, so sudden—pulls him so sharply out of the thought, he's almost startled. She looks so _worried_ , for a moment; part of him freezes, even as something in her expression turns impossibly gentle.

"I saw you, in the fighting," she explains. "A girl at work, she showed me a video. You're—scrappy."

He stills, not sure what to do with what's so clearly presented as reassurance. Reassurance that—that he didn't quite need, that he _hasn't_ needed, for a long age—but that some part of him is still somehow grateful for, regardless. He wonders if she knows how much she is a flatterer; how surely she holds his heart in her gentle, doctor's hands.

But—he pushes the thought down, as sharply as he can. He's spent most of his life, after all, appreciating the benefits in a shape easier to obfuscate, easier to mistake for something else. It's not like he has many other shapes to choose from, nowadays.

In the end, all he can think to say is the truth, unfamiliar as the impulse is. "I guess I've had a long time to get used to the thought."

"Well, I guess I still haven't." Her expression turns self-conscious, almost bashful, under the teasing. "After all. It's not easy, y'know. Keeping up with all your cool supernatural secrets."

"I thought we agreed it's not a competition."

"It's still true!" She laughs lightly into the darkness between them, nervous and honest and—oh. _Oh_. "I don't know, Walt. I just—I guess stuff like 'I had to retake my driver's license three times,' or 'I'm apparently deathly afraid of heights,' just doesn't hit the same after _literally_ _flying_."

 _You'd be surprised_ , he almost says. The memory of _literally flying_ , with her—of the whole few days, leading up to the apocalypse-that-wasn't—he can see her clearly, safe and whole, beside him, but the thought still makes him feel vaguely like he might've been poisoned. The one advantage he'd never truly spoiled, the one secret he'd held onto since even before winning his name—it hadn't taken a thought, to reveal it for her. Somehow, he still can't regret it.

In the meantime, though, she shifts her attention back to the bottle between them. It's her turn, technically, though they've been following the protocol of the game only in the loosest sense.

"Alright." She takes a deep breath, and gives another nervous laugh. "Well. That's gonna be a hard act to follow."

"As I said," he protests, rather feebly. "It's not a competition."

She just laughs again. "Still! You're telling me all this cool stuff. I want to repay your consideration."

He, obviously, has absolutely _no_ idea what to say to that. So: she forges on.

"So. _Well_. Alright, how about this." She picks the bottle up, gently, gives it a thoughtful swirl. "You know—all things considered? I'm pretty glad you moved in with me."

His immediate instinct, wild and reflexive, is disbelief. Part of him wants to tease, to deflect; part of him doesn't dare, for fear(however irrational) she'd really been joking. He's been trying to be less totally _like this_ , around her; but three weeks can only do so much against centuries of habit and discipline.

She must notice whatever expression he's making, though, because she laughs again.

"I really am, you know," she insists. "I've been thinking about it a lot, lately. Felt like I wasn't making it clear enough." She looks away. "And—anyway, I don't think I've ever actually _told_ you."

He still can't quite believe he'd heard her right. And when he notices she's shifted to lying on her back, just like him—

"I didn't think I was going to tell you," she adds, more softly. He realizes, distantly, that his cheeks have gone very warm. "After—after losing my memory, even after it came back. After _you_ came back. I was so _mad_ at you, Walt—"

He swallows. "Deservedly so."

"I don't need you to tell me that." Her voice, though, is gentler than the rebuke of the words. "I still don't...I don't pretend I understand. Or condone. But...it's nice, having someone around." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and shoots him a quick sideways glance he's not entirely sure he's supposed to notice. "And, after all. I gotta admit. I missed having a roommate."

"Well." He swallows, again. Then—looks away. "I have to earn my keep somehow, don't I?"

"I _did_. Jim—don't get me wrong. But after he left—" Something choking and fragile threatens to rise in her voice, but she takes a deep breath. "The thought of coming home to an empty house, with him gone, that's one thing. But coming home to a house with—to someone I'm glad to see?"

There's something enormous under the words, something he can't look at too directly. Mostly because: he's still trying to digest the thought that she's _glad_ , to see _him_.

He'd almost wonder if he was dreaming, if his dreams were ever as sweet as this.

"Anyway." She tips the bottle to her lips, and knocks back her shot, quick and neat and only a little flushed. She barely flinches at the burn, now, which—gives him a funny feeling. "Boom. Another round of secrets, un-secreted."

"Is this what catharsis feels like?" He still can't resist the teasing, despite everything. But somehow, he isn't sure. Wouldn't quite know how to tell, if it was.

She smacks him gently on the arm. "You can't rush it." Then: offers him the bottle. "Here. Your turn."

* * *

He loses count, eventually, of how many secrets they've exchanged. The record player lies blithely forgotten, now, just outside the murmur of their conversation. But—the night keeps going, and they just keep talking, and he finds, somehow, that he can't exactly bring himself to mind.

In his defense: by this point, their shoulders are almost touching. This strikes him as an entirely sufficient excuse.

"Aw, man." She laughs beside him, self-conscious, and tries (not very successfully) to stifle a groan. "Come on. You're gonna think I'm—that I'm being dramatic."

He neglects to bring up the fact that they've spent the better part of the evening drinking on the floor, in her attic, in the dark. He's spent most of that time trying to balance the dawning realization that he is terribly, _wretchedly_ in love with trying not to look like a completely besotted fool as he lays here beside her, and he's mostly sure, at this point, that he's failing miserably.

"Try me, my dear."

"Well...speaking of bitter things and first loves." Her voice goes a little softer, though—when he dares a glance over to her—she's still wearing that little half-smile. "You know, Jim—James, I mean. D'you know, he was my highschool sweetheart?"

His eyes go—stupidly wide. It's not often that he's genuinely surprised, nowadays, but—

He'd known, obviously, about the man. He has very little experience with either highschool or sweethearts, and most of it is— _hah_ —only academic. But to hear her talk of him, so casually—it's an odd feeling, one he's not quite sure how to touch.

"I actually don't think of him that much. Hardly at all, in fact, since the divorce." She tilts the bottle of schnapps—now much reduced—to scrutinize the label. The creamy paper has turned a dull, washed-out silver in the thin stream of light peeking in from above, making the writing all the more crisp. "Mostly, it was back when Jim was younger. He used to ask me about his dad, all the time."

The memory comes, unbidden, of a cold spring night, long past. Of the fall of the moonlight over cobbles, the sound of—of the _boy's_ father's voice; of old wounds, long scarred over, but once driven deep. Still: anything he can think to say just feels trite.

"Crazy what a fast car and a bad haircut can convince you of, right?" She says it lightly, half a laugh, but there's an edge of—something, in her voice, something that commands his attention back to the here and now. "But—you know. In the end, I don't think—I don't think he was my first love."

A huge, solid silence settles between them. There are—he has so many questions, suddenly, and frustratingly little idea what to do with his hands. He doesn't dare look directly at her, like Lancelot before the Grail.

 _She's transparent_ , he thinks. _Like the air above clouds, like the sky on a clear, perfect night. So effortlessly herself, without distinction between signifier and signified; seeming and being, collapsed to a single point_.

A long moment passes. Then: he hears the clink of the bottle against the floor. It's— _not_ startling, definitely not.

"Go on," she says. "I can tell you wanna ask. So ask, you dweeb."

He balks, not sure if this is an overstep. Even—perhaps especially—because she's giving him permission. 

But. He swallows.

"Then who was?"

She laughs again. "Jim, obviously."

He looks at her carefully, and wonders if she can see his heart beating through his skin.

She must misinterpret his expression, though. "Not to be mushy, or anything," she adds, quickly. Her blush is barely visible in the dark, but—she waves a hand, suddenly and endearingly self-conscious. " _God_. I really am the living single-parent cliché, huh? Always talking about my ex, or my kid—"

"I—I like hearing you talk about it." Which, again—is true, despite feeling like possibly one of the stupidest, most insipid ways he could've phrased it. Then, when the moment seems to call for an explanation: "We—despite the obvious, children aren't something changelings usually have a lot of experience with." His eyes flick away, on impulse. "And, as I said. You have every right to be proud of him."

(Himself, perhaps less so. Though that hasn't exactly managed to stop him yet.)

"Yeah." Her eyes go soft, almost as soft as her voice. "Yeah, I know."

Before the silence can get too big, too close, she slides the bottle over to him. He takes it, easy and practiced by now, as she shifts around again to rest her head on her hand. He thinks about _drama_ , and _catharsis_ , and decides he's not quite sure what else he trusts himself to say.

He must have some sort of expression, though because it doesn't take long for her to shoot him a soft, nervous smile.

"So, uh. No pressure, or anything." Her eyes are worried, though she does a good job of hiding the quiver in her voice. "If you're still up for more secrets, I mean. I just figured—well, might as well get our big soul-baring confession out of the way, and all—"

"You think I'm going to do any better?" The feeling is so sudden, so honest, the words come out a little faster than he can stop them. Of _course_ he wants to stay here, with her; to stay here, _talking_ to her; he's still trying to wrap his head around the fact that she's evidently interested in the same, with him. He picks up the proffered bottle, and tries, despite every instinct, to play it cool. "Though given what you said about being dramatic—"

"Aw, come on." She snorts, a genuine, delightful sound. "We—Walt, we've lied to a cop. We went to _troll jail_ together. I think I can handle you being a little dramatic."

He tries to laugh with her. Almost warns her: _careful what you wish for._

But. Well. That's a hard act to follow.

And— _well._

Why bother getting drunk, if he isn't going to pull out the big guns?

He tips the bottle back, and takes—a _very_ long shot.

(Part of him wants her to ask about it. Part of him wants to tell her: between full trolls and humans, yes, the difference in tolerance is usually considerable. But between humans and changelings? Not so much.)

"I think—I think I miss my human skin." He says it very softly, like he's only fully realizing it himself. Which—maybe he is. "I wouldn't want to be trapped in it," he adds, too quickly, which he realizes boozily rather implies he feels trapped in _this one_ , damn, _damn_ , "but—it might have been stolen, but for my whole life, it had been mine. And now..."

He gestures to himself. He can't help but feel—diminished, somehow. Even if, after everything, he still can't bring himself to put the thought into words.

She's gone very quiet, beside him. Hair half-down, head on one hand, like a reclining goddess. And—he can't dare to look at her directly, but—from as much as he can see, she's got that look again: too real, too _close_ , the one that burns like sunlight should.

"It isn't what you're thinking," he insists, feeling small and pitiful and suddenly, achingly lonely. "It's not—this isn't like _anything_ humans know."

 _Nothing about changelings is given by choice_. _It only makes sense that the same is true when something's taken away—_

"What is it like, then?"

Her expression is tentative, like she's not sure she should've asked. Her voice is—not intrusive, not scrutinizing. But gentle, and curious, in a way he's not at all used to, in a way his every instinct screams not to trust.

He's never trusted anyone, he thinks, the way he trusts her.

"Like being gaggletacked," he starts to say, before remembering: that doesn't mean anything to her. Part of him, unhelpfully, suggests he should have perhaps skirted the subject of _visceral, irreversible body horror_ a little more loosely; he fumbles to try and think of a more suitable metaphor. "Like—like every dream you've ever had of being naked in front of an auditorium, made permanent. Like a phantom limb."

_Like losing a jacket you've spent centuries making your own, and wearing every day._

She makes a soft, quiet sound. It—whatever it is, it doesn't sound terribly sure of itself.

"It's not the end of the world, after all." His voice comes out more pleading, more insistent than he'd meant, and he tries, inexpertly, to correct it into something resembling a laugh, just for the chance at breaking something of this stupid tension. How to explain this to a creature who has only ever been bound to a single form, however lovely?

"It's—complicated," he manages, in the end. "But—I'll miss blending into a crowd."

When he finally gets up the courage to look over to her—her eyes have gone very tender, so full of something that's so unbearably gentle he can hardly stand it. Before he can say anything else—anything which, even then, he's sure he'd end up regretting—she reaches over and says:

"My turn."

She slips the bottle neatly from his hand, and knocks back a shot.

"I missed you. Even when I was furious with you. I _dreamt_ of you. When I saw you, when you came back and knocked on our door—"

She reaches over to him, and brushes her fingers against his.

His heart stops. His heart _races_.

"When we were in Trollmarket," she says, game more or less forgotten. He knows he's drunk now; the touch of her skin against his must be what other trolls tell him the sun feels like. "The—the second time. Did you—what you said, to Gunmar. Did you—"

 _I meant every word_ , he thinks.

But even now, even here, macerating in a dead friend's pilfered liquor and his own cast-off secrets, his voice fails him. All he can do is nod, miserably, blissfully.

"Walt." In the dark of the attic, her eyes are clear and bright as moonlight. "I—I'd like to kiss you, if that's alright."

He is absolutely certain he hasn't heard her correctly.

(And—he _must_ have heard her. He can't have died, an insistent and terrified part of him thinks. Because—because no one's ever really worried over the specifics of where changelings are supposed to end up, but _wherever_ it is, there's no way it's going to be this _good_ —)

But: the lady is expectant.

So, he only nods. As intently, as eagerly as he can.

And then, when she leans in—warm as sunlight, the pleasant weight of her on top of him vivid and strange and _real_ and _welcome_ —in that moment, he knows, he _knows_ : he is utterly lost.

* * *

They'd kissed—before. Before the charm. Before—that night, in Trollmarket. They've _never_ kissed with her knowing what he is. Up until about thirty seconds ago, he'd never stopped to consider this might have still been an option. He'd never—normal trolls don't often interact with humans but changelings _definitely_ do, so he'd always thought he had a pretty good handle on what a human would think of this face—

He's not unduly self-loathing. Not at his age, not after—after centuries of being told he should be. But he's not stupid, either.

And for her—he _very_ much doesn't want to be stupid.

"Barbara," he murmurs. One hand cupped around his cheek, the other cradling the nape of his neck, she's incredibly distracting; he's trying to be particularly mindful of his claws— _against skin_ , he thinks, dizzily, dreamily, it's never something he's had to be concerned about, before—but underneath the giddy, still-disbelieving elation he's _nervous_. More so than he's felt in a long age. And—he's got to get this out before the words fail him, even if he can only start with her name. "Barbara, I—"

She freezes. "Is everything okay?"

He tries not to laugh, half disbelieving, half hysterical. "Very much so, my dear." He can't resist turning his head, just slightly, into her touch. "But I—Barbara, before you do this—there are things you should know."

She pulls back a bit. Attentive, but still almost anxious. Her hand comes to rest, just lightly, on his second _pectoralis_ —just over the human solar plexus, just above where a human navel would be. 

"Things like...what?"

He swallows. _Courage. Courage!_

"I'm a changeling," he says, like that explains everything. Because—it does. Or at least it should. "You're—you're living with a _changeling_ , Barbara—"

"I think I've gathered that." She's half laughing, again, not unkindly, though it's not quite enough to cover the sharp, stifling undercurrent of worry in her voice. "Unless—unless I'm barking up the wrong tree. Which I didn't think I was?"

He laughs, a nervous, breathless sound. "You definitely aren't."

"So...if you're down for making out with a human. And I'm down for making out with—with a changeling. With _you_." She shoots him an anxious smile. "C'mon, Walt. Talk to me, here."

Part of him thinks: she might as well have asked him to change again. It's not that he doesn't want this; he does. He _does_. That's exactly the problem. Even if she doesn't realize it, even if she _thinks_ she understands, she only knows half the story. And worse: only the human half of it.

But. For her. Some small, insane part of him thinks: for her, he wants to try.

Which still doesn't make it easy.

"What I mean is—us, _this_ —your relationship to the Trollhunter makes you visible," he manages. He's suddenly, _deliriously_ conscious of the scars around his neck. "In a way you weren't, before."

He swallows, hard, for what feels like the thousandth time. This isn't the first time he's—wanted, like this. But it's the first time with someone who—she can take care of herself, he knows that.

"They will come after you." He looks up to her, pathetically. He's never felt so incompetent, so _useless_. "For this."

Her look softens. Her touch on his chest is—so light, so warm.

"I raised my son as a single mother," she says, gently. "While finishing med school, and moving across the country. And all of that was before the divorce. If they want to come after me, for this—after _us_?" She leans in, close, and her voice turns to fire. "Let them come."

 _Which_. If he wasn't already in love.

But: he steels himself. He is in love—he is, he's sure of it, now, even if it's a thought still too huge, too terrible to voice—but she doesn't understand.

And part of him—a manic, miserable part of him, thinks: maybe he wants for that to change.

"Changelings aren't desirable partners," he insists. Somewhere, distantly, the thought occurs to him that he's babbling—schnapps and regret bleeding through him like watercolor, subtle silver tongue turned dumb and heavy as lead. But he can't stop, not now. Because—being seen might mean being unmade, but for this? For _her_? There are _rules_. "We might be raised among humans, but—this—this isn't a life that _changelings_ get to have—"

The admission makes him feel more pitiful than he likes. Especially when—when a look of something aching and terrible flickers through her eyes. But: when she looks down to him, when her expression shifts from _thoughtful_ to something unbearably tender—

"Is it a life you want?"

A meaningless question. Wanting admits insufficiency admits vulnerability. He hasn't allowed himself to want for _centuries_.

 _More than anything_. _Which is why—I can't. I_ can't _._

...It occurs to him, faintly, that he might have said that aloud.

But—now that it's out there—he's got to tell her, he realizes. He feels—pathetic, drunken and _small_ , but—he's got to. Before she realizes, in turn; before she looks upon this pitiful creature before her, and sees right through him, sees him for what he really is—

"I meant it," he blurts out. He knows this—this is too much, this isn't how _humans_ feel, but it's the truth, so it's what she deserves; it's what he owes her, at the very least. He can't look at her, for fear he'll lose his nerve. "What—when you asked, about what I said in Trollmarket—it wasn't only you," he explains, the silence suddenly stretching too thin, too transparent, between them, "but—we, _changelings_ , live a zero-sum game. The life I saw you living—wanting to have that, with the person who first showed it to me—that was the first time in my life that I realized the sum had changed. That anything else, even if I'd been chasing it my entire life, was a zero."

The attic feels very silent, in the wake of—whatever that was. He's tensing, he realizes, for _something_ —something he doesn't want to think about. He feels like a child, again. He still can't bring himself to look her in the eye.

But—he feels her shift, on the cushion beside him. And then—

" _Walt_."

The sound of his ( _begged, borrowed, stolen_ ) name draws his eyes right back to her. Like iron to a lodestone, like the sun along the ecliptic.

"I don't—I'm not going to be your whole world," she says. Silver as steel, terrible as the dawn. "What I mean is—that kind of responsibility—Atlas held the world up, but that was a _punishment_. And I won't make you Atlas."

The words carry a terrifying finality. But—he must be making some kind of _expression_ , because—she reaches up, to squeeze his hand.

"But I do want—I want to have a place in your world," she adds, softly. Almost shyly. "Just like I want you to have a place in mine. If—if you'll have it."

Somewhere, distantly, his heart trips.

 _If_. The word carries a question, somewhere under the surface—huge, unapproachable.

Possibly, also, the easiest question he's ever been asked.

She must take his wide-eyed, goggling silence for something else, though. "I don't actually know mythology very well," she admits. The blush is clear on her cheeks, even in the dark, and—she just gives him a nervous laugh. "If you've got any suggestions that might be more apropos..."

He can only blink. Mostly because he's faintly certain no one—human or changeling, myth or otherwise—has ever been this lucky.

But—well. He swallows. Squeezes her hand, in return.

"If you don't mind," he says, like it's his last words on earth, "I think we could probably stand to be making up for lost time, instead."

"I— _oh_." She grins, sudden and bright and and brilliant as the sunrise. "I like the way you think."

She turns to face him. Rests her hands at either side of his face, touch light and gentle as a dream.

He's not quite warm-blooded, anymore. (And he'd always run to cold, even when he was.) But—he's spent a long time, in the human world, and gotten used to the patterns and privileges of being endothermic.

Now, like this—in the dark, next to her, in her _home_ —he thinks he might never feel cold again.

Her hands are so gentle. Her lips—are slightly chapped, actually, but—gentle, and so soft, against his; the kiss is clumsy, over-eager, but it tastes of stonefruit and sunlight, of warmth and play and intent. She's transparent, yes—but he'd been wrong about it, earlier. This isn't the transparency of air, nor glass, but of diamond: brilliant, unyielding, as balanced as a knife; so beautiful, so _good_ , smart and resolute and exactly herself—

And then, she's pulling herself in close again, and in all his years—he'd never dreamt of something like this. Not in the Darklands. Not even from afar, once he'd come to the human world; not with Adelaisa, not with Eustathios or Cyrasse. Not with anyone. He'd never _dared_.

But—with her—

—and _if_ —

—and—the touch of her skin, against _his_ —

—and if she runs her hands back any further, there are going to be _noises_ —

* * *

They may—only slightly—let the time get away from them, in the end.

Not by much. This isn't their first time kissing, after all, however much it feels like it. (However much it certainly feels like it. However much it makes him feel—new, and content, and—electrically, pleasantly stupid.) And—they're not children. Both of them are very responsible adults, who may or may not have spent a _responsible_ adult evening polishing off a fifth of ancient, _adult_ -tasting apricot schnapps.

...They are also, perhaps, very _stupidly_ happy.

(To be completely fair: it's not like they had anywhere to be.)

He's pretty sure they're both actually quite content where they are, as a matter of fact. The soft, crisp square of moonlight is still making its way across the floor, so he knows time is still passing (even as it feels like it isn't, like it never will again, in the _best_ way), but—after all. The cushions are plush, and many. It hasn't exactly seemed like a problem, so far.

He registers, distantly, the faint chime of her ringtone. It's coming from somewhere vaguely in the direction of the trapdoor—somewhere inside her purse, probably.

The sound fades, after a moment. In his defense, she doesn't exactly jump to answer it. So: he doesn't worry.

(They are still, after all, _very_ pleasantly engaged.)

Not long after, though, it appears again. Vexatious thing.

She absents a hand for a moment from its very pleasant post over his collarbone. But her purse is somewhere over by her shoes, so—reluctantly—she pulls herself away, over to fetch it.

He takes the time, mostly, to feel gently bereft of her warmth. That's all it is, probably, behind the distant, building sense of—something. Something important. Something he's recently forgotten. It's not _doom_ —he's good enough at recognizing that feeling, drunk or not. But when she flicks on her phone—

Her eyes go wide. " _Shit_. Jim!"

He's overcome for a moment by a flash of drunk, dizzy panic. The Trollhunter had been somewhere under Colorado, when they'd texted earlier that day. Surely her sense of impending danger isn't that fine-tuned?

Then, he remembers:

"Your call!"

"I completely forgot!"

 _Shit_. There's no way to mistake what they've been up to. When Jim sees what they've been doing—alone, at night, in her _home_ —young Atlas is going to kill him—

The phone is still ringing. She's fumbling with the unlock screen—already answering, almost, when she pauses, and looks to him, notices his wild alarm.

"What are you going to tell him?"

She looks at him like she doesn't understand the question. "The truth?"

"The _truth_?!" He can hear the edge of a squawk in his voice, but he's too busy thinking about the fact she just suggested they _tell Jim the truth_ to really care. His entire being resists the thought. "Barbara—"

But—she just looks at him.

"Come on." She bites her lip. "I—it can't be that bad. I know there were— _extenuating circumstances_ , but—Walt, you don't know how much he looks up to you. Still."

"He's not going to like this," he insists. Even as he's trying very sternly not to think about—about Young Atlas, looking up to him. "Barbara, when he sees me—when he sees me, _here_ —"

Her eyes flick from him, to her phone. For a moment, she looks almost lost.

Then, in a softer voice, she says: "But what if I want you here?"

He looks up to her, stupidly. He doesn't—all his years, all his training, and nothing, _nothing_ has prepared him, for this. Everything he knows has not remotely qualified him, for this.

But— _well_. The lady is expectant.

In the end, again: all he can do is nod.

Relief floods radiant through her expression. She settles back on their cushions, nestles in close. Then: offers him her hand.

He takes it, without thinking.

How wondrous, how terrible, to live in this new world.

"Hey, kiddo." She's trying not to laugh, he realizes, as she answers the call with her other hand. On instinct—unfamiliar, blissful, new—he turns his head into her shoulder, blushing and grinning and trying _desperately_ not to laugh for the breathless, giddy joy of her hand in his. "Sorry 'bout that. How—how've you been?"

**Author's Note:**

> the title of this fic is taken from sappho fragment 104a: "evening / you gather back / all that dazzling dawn has put asunder: / you gather a lamb / gather a kid / gather a child to its mother" (trans. anne carson).
> 
> if you've made it this far, thanks for sticking with this little series! i've got a few more stories tentatively planned, but for now, i think i'd like my next project to branch out a little—at least before _wizards_ josses my carefully-constructed headcanon treehouse. (perhaps that [extremely self-indulgent strickler biofic i keep dreaming of...?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459174/chapters/61753261)) 
> 
> in the meantime, however: thank you once again for your kudos and comments. your feedback has been a balm in these chaotic times; i hope this can at least repay part of the favor 💖


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